


Fields of Stars in Bloom

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, References to Minor Character Death, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Sam is overcome with grief when he and Dean pass where Sam was going to propose to Jess on the way to a hunt. Dean comforts him.Written for the 2017 Spring Fling over at LJ.





	Fields of Stars in Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madebyme_x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madebyme_x/gifts).



> This fic is for the lovely madebyme_x, I think this is the second or third thing I've written for you, I think our interests mesh fantastically :) Hope you liked it!   
> <3

The past fifteen weeks have been stuffed full of silence. Dean’s not sure how to break it. They’re trapped in a fragile glass bubble, and if he chooses to pop it, they’ll be worse off.  
  
Nothing makes the situation any better. He’s never felt more restless in his life. They tear up miles of highway, and never sit still for more than a couple of days, but stagnancy is creeping up on Dean, making the little hairs on the back of his neck itch.  
  
The worst part about it all is how awkward he feels with Sam. They’re not strangers, never have been, but this kind of grief… Dean can’t understand, can’t touch it. If only Dad were here, he thinks for the millionth time, maybe he could help Sam cope.  
  
Every time he wishes for an easy way to help Sam he wants to deck himself. Of course it’s not easy. Loss is ever easy. Their entire life is underscored by that exact damn sentence.  
  
Dean had tried to talk with Sam and it had been a disaster from the beginning. Hell, he probably made Sam feel more isolated than ever.  
  
His current plan is just to chatter Sam’s ear off about completely inane shit. If he can get Sam to look less lost for even half a second due to some bullshit story about making a kid eat bird crap in sixth grade, then the day is considered a win. Distraction is Dean’s forte. He’s not sure he wants to resort to alcohol just yet, but he hasn’t struck the idea off his list.   
  
They’ve come back West after a couple of fast-paced hauntings in New England. Dean fucking hates Connecticut families with their slacks and wristwatches and Bentleys and their complete fucking idiocy when it comes to spirits. It’s like every semi-wealthy family on the Atlantic refuses to let go of some haunted heirloom and has the nerve to get pissy with Sam and Dean when they burn it after the spirit almost kills their son.   
  
Sam the Map-Bearer, Sam the Guide of the Lower Forty-Eight, is out of commission. Dean doesn’t blame him. So Dean carves a half-assed trail through the Middle West, pushing tentatively toward the Pacific Ocean but avoiding anything remotely Californian with what he hopes is casual subtlety.   
  
Right now, he’s not exactly sure where they are. It’s a nice view regardless if it’s Idaho, Wyoming, or Montana. If Sam were still at school, Dean might have considered sending him a postcard from the nearest rest stop. Sam has always been a fan of mountains.  
  
That train of thought is not exactly productive, though, so Dean drives on. He’d given up on his newest chatter plan after Sam had grabbed a hoodie from the backseat and jammed it against the window, curling up facing away from Dean and closing his eyes. Loud and clear.  
  
He’d been ninety-nine percent certain Sam was sound asleep when a wild flailing of limbs to his right startles him. The car veers slightly and he corrects his course, swearing.  
  
“Sammy?” Dean asks, glancing at his ruffled brother. “Nightmare?”  
  
“Pull over,” Sam croaks, hand fumbling for the handle. “Pull over.”  
  
“Okay,” Dean says, bringing the car to the side of the road as soon as he’s able. Before he’s even cut the engine, Sam is out and running across a field, plants and weeds smashed down in his clumsy path.  
  
Dean yanks the key out of the ignition and books it after Sam, calling for him. Sam doesn’t look back, pushing determinedly out into the middle of nowhere. Dean has no choice but to follow.  
  
Sam goes down and disappears in a sea of vegetation. Dean curses, whacking plants out of his way and stomping on the ones that are sharp. Little shits have no right to be so tall.   
  
As he runs, a break in the flora becomes obvious. He slows down, hands twitching, ready for action, and finds Sam sitting in the grass, leaves and flower petals in his hair, face blank.  
  
Dean inhales deeply and gets down next to Sam, landing on his ass with a grunt. He pulls a dandelion stem out of Sam’s hair.   
  
“Where are we,” Sam says with zero intonation.  
  
Dean swallows. Any life in Sam’s eyes, even anguish, would be better than this. “I’m thinking Wyoming, near Idaho,” he says. “Why?”  
  
Sam’s quiet for a minute. He points his finger to the North. “Then those are the Bighorns,” he says, eyes glued to the white-capped peaks in the distance.  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, stretching the syllables out. “You wanna let me in on what’s going on with you?”  
  
Sam takes a quiet, shuddering breath. He picks three flowers and sets them in his lap, staring down at them, face obscured by his hair. “That’s a Bluebell,” he says, pointing to the purple bundles, “that’s a Black-eyed Susan,” he says, pointing to the wide, yellow bloom, “and that’s White Aster,” he says, pointing to the delicate white flowers. “That’s how I knew where we were.”  
  
Dean waits for more. Something's coming, something Sam’s preparing for. He rests a hand on Sam’s back and keeps his eyes on his brother.  
  
Sam lifts his head to the sky. His eyes are red and tear-lined, his mouth twitching with effort to hold back a wall of emotions.   
  
“Jess has a thousand pictures of fields like this one,” Sam says. “When I first moved in with her, she taped them up all over the living room. She got a book from her mom in our second semester with a bunch of pressed flowers in it. She told me all their names.”  
  
Dean slowly rubs Sam’s back. “She loved it here?”  
  
Sam laughs and sniffles, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “More than that,” he says. “She grew up looking up at those mountains. Her family has a cabin somewhere near here, they come here every time it gets warm. One of her favorite memories was coming out to the fields of wildflowers to make bouquets with her mom.”  
  
“That’s nice,” Dean says. “She was lucky.”  
  
“Meeting me was the most unlucky thing to ever happen to her,” Sam says, low, throat thick. “Do you know what day it is? It’s Spring Break. Jess should be here right now.” Sam lets out a single pained noise, closing his eyes. “She should be here, right now, with her mom, but I stopped that from happening. What’s her mom doing right now, Dean?” Sam turns to look at him, face crumpling in slow motion. “What is she doing?”  
  
“Probably the same as you,” Dean says gently. “Letting it out. It’s not good to keep it bottled up, man. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but… this is good for you. I’m glad we came here.”  
  
Sam sniffs again, wiping at the first tear before it can even reach the apple of his cheek. “I was going to propose to her in a field just like this,” Sam says. “A jeweler in San Jose had a ring that I thought was perfect for her. I had it all planned out. After she said yes, we were gonna head due West and spend the week in Yellowstone.”  
  
Dean stays quiet. The information sinks slowly to the pit of his stomach. He clears his throat, looking out across the field. Before, running after Sam, none of it had processed. Now, he can see the precarious beauty of everything around them, feels a little guilty for the flattened path of havoc they wrought. It is the exact perfect season to come here, just as the flowers begin to bloom and the temperatures rise.   
  
“I would’ve wanted to go,” Dean says, patting Sam between the shoulders when Sam sends him a watery look of question. “To your wedding, or whatever. I would’ve gone. You won’t believe me, but Dad would’ve, too. We woulda felt out of place among all the gorgeous super model in-laws, sure, but we would’ve gone.”  
  
Sam smiles thinly. It’s gone half a minute later. “I think Mom would have liked her,” he says, voice shaking, and looks down at the ground again, blinking away tears.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, feeling his own eyes burn. He wraps his arm around Sam’s shoulder. “I think she would have.”  
  
They sit in silence for several more beats, but the silence has transformed. It’s tinged with longing, sure, but it shares the same promise of cleansing as the spring air.   
  
Sam stands up first, crumpled wildflowers clutched in his big fist. He walks slowly through the field, this time working not to destroy any of the wildlife. He picks several Bluebells from a cluster humming audibly from the amount of honey bees swirling around, gathering pollen.  
  
Dean steps up beside him and spots an almost flawless Black-eyed Susan. He picks it and hands it to Sam. They work their way back to the Impala, choosing the best wildflowers from the bunch.  
  
By the time they get back to the side of the road, clouds have begun to scoot across the sky, partially obscuring the sun. They’ve got a decent selection of flowers, now, the collective stems almost too wide for Sam’s hand to grasp them all at once.   
  
Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulder and turns away before Sam can get a good look at his face. He lets him feel everything on the short walk around to the driver’s side and is back to being Sam’s rock by the time he slides behind the wheel. His hands hardly shake when he puts the key into the ignition. He swallows, nodding to himself.  
  
Sam slides in next to him. He presses his nose to the flowers, closing his eyes. Dean looks away. The moment is too intimate for his gaze. It’s something between Sam and Jess, maybe not final, but penultimate.   
  
He hears a rustle and turns back to see Sam carefully setting the bundle on the dashboard. The flowers lose bouquet shape, spreading out under the window. “Here,” Dean says, gesturing to the glove box, “Gimme the Zeppelin tapes.”  
  
Sam complies, setting the shoebox on his lap and handing Dean the bundle of cassette albums. Dean unwraps the rubber band from around them and hands it to Sam. Sam regroups the flowers and wraps the rubber band around the stems. Once he’s done, the bouquet sits pretty on the dash. Dean hands Sam the loose tapes and Sam puts them back into the shoebox. The shoebox goes back into the glovebox and Dean puts his hand on the gearshift.  
  
“Okay,” he says. “You ready?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam bobs his head. “I think so.”  
  
Dean nods in response, finding no words suitable. He gets the car back on the highway, building speed.  
Sam mentions lunch. Dean promises to look out for the next couple of exit signs.   
  
Sam turns the radio on. Dean turns the volume up.  
  
They head West.  
  
fin

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you from my heart to all the lovely dedicated readers and commenters. All you beans keep me going on the rough days.
> 
> <3


End file.
